


I Tried

by Hatterized



Category: The Walking Dead (Comics)
Genre: Angst, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, past rick/andrea, spoilers up to issue 168
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-25
Updated: 2017-07-25
Packaged: 2018-12-06 22:26:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11610195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hatterized/pseuds/Hatterized
Summary: Rick gets comfort from an unexpected source, and Negan gets a couch to sleep on.





	I Tried

**Author's Note:**

> My first fic that's 100% comicverse- I'm excited!

Negan gives Rick some space- that’s what he would want, he thinks. Some breathing room, some time with his son and his close friends. He never got that chance for himself when Lucille died- to grieve properly, to have a funeral, to be comforted by loved ones.

For fucking once, he decides not to pout about not being included in that category- he saved Rick’s life, and Rick returned the favor, and it’s a start. It’s something. It sure as fuck is more than they had a couple months ago, and Negan’s willing to take it. He’s had over two years of patiently trying to win Rick’s favor- he’s a man that’s willing to wait, and Rick has always been, to him, a man worth waiting for.

When Rick doesn’t lock him in the cell again that first night, he chalks it up to the grief. He would fucking love to think that it’s something else- that five letter t-word that he so desperately craves, but he knows in his heart of hearts that it’s not that.

Rick just lost her, after all. His wife in all but the name. Strong, a hell of a sniper, smokin’ hot. Negan would be lying if he said he’d never been jealous. Of both of them, having each other.

The thought crosses Negan’s mind- brief and flickering, but it happened. _Now that she’s gone, maybe I can…_

No.

He hates himself the moment he thinks it, really loathes himself in a way that Rick is good at bringing out of him. He’s never been one to damn himself over stray thoughts, but he knows what it is to lose someone like that, someone you love that fucking much. Rick is hurting, and Negan’s thinking about how long he has to wait before he can take a swing at sticking his dick into him.

He doesn’t dwell on it. Stray thoughts, not like they fucking mean anything. And anyway, he’s got other things to think about. Like the fact that tonight, he’s a free man. He feels like he’s taking advantage of everyone being so distracted with rebuilding the gate and burying their dead, but he’s not about to go trotting back to his cell waiting like an obedient dog to be locked back in his kennel. He tried that before, and Rick didn’t seem to take it as a gesture of good faith like Negan had hoped he would. He strongly doubts that anyone will come, anyway- they’ve got more important matters at hand.

 _Besides_ , he reasons, it’s not like he’s a threat to these people anymore. Fuck, he helped save their asses today. He deserves to sleep in on an actual goddamned mattress and shit in an actual goddamned toilet. Prison had not been kind to his back or his dignity.

The only problem is that he can’t find an empty house- not shocking, he supposes, but a real swift fucking kick to the nuts. He’d been looking forward to that bed. The thought of resigning himself to going back to his lumpy old prison mattress makes him want to hurl right into the bucket he’d been pissing in for two years.

Yeah, fuck that, he’d rather sleep on the goddamned ground than willingly subject himself to that shit. With his luck, he’d wake up to find himself locked inside again, and that isn’t a risk he’s willing to take.

It’s pitch black out save for the pale moonlight filtering through the trees, and Negan plods through Alexandria in search of a cozy patch of grass to lay his head when he sees it: a person, a man, making his way through the yard next to the church.

 _What the fuck kind of idiot would be out here this late?_ Negan thinks. _You know, other than fucking me._

Negan trips over a roamer corpse on his way to the church, and gives it an extra kick, just for good measure, even though it’s very clearly been dispatched, its rotten skull a bowl of brain soup on the sidewalk.

The yard turns out to be a cemetery. It’s got its own brand of unnerving-creepy with its makeshift headstones fashioned out of sticks, twined together to resemble crosses. Negan briefly wonders, what with the crosses and the church, how many people still cling to religion in the face of the goddamned apocalypse. He was never a pious man, but it seems to him like undead pricks swallowing the earth is a pretty clear sign that there’s no big man in charge calling the shots.

Then again, maybe some people just want to believe that this is God’s will. The earth cleansing itself of the filthy, broken animal that is humankind. An extinction event, God’s righteous hand smiting that which has become unclean. Either way, he's not about to dwell on it. God or no God, he's got the distinct feeling that he's damned either way.

He weaves between graves, and catches sight of the man.

The man turns out to be Rick Grimes.

He’s shirtless for some reason- Negan can’t decide if this is a blessing or a curse. He’s also lying curled on his side on a fresh mound of earth, his skin painted an eerie, ghostlike white in the moonlight.

He’s got to have heard Negan coming, but he doesn’t move.

“Rick.”

Nothing, just shallow breaths that Negan can see though the rising and falling of his ribs. There’s a scar there, raised and faded, from where Negan ordered Dwight to shoot him so long ago.

“Rick, no fucking offense, but what the fuck are you doing out here? I’d make a fucking joke about a dirt nap, but it seems a little fucking on the nose, don’t you think?”

When Rick doesn’t acknowledge him, he knows that something’s really wrong.

“Rick,” he crouches next to Rick’s hunched form, hovering, unsure. He’s about to ask again why the hell Rick’s opting to sleep on the ground like an animal- or Negan- when he sees whose grave it is that Rick is curled up on

In hindsight, it should have been obvious.

Negan touches him then, one large hand on Rick’s bare shoulder, and he’s cold as ice. As if Negan’s touch made him realize it, Rick starts shivering.

“Come on, Rick,” Negan says, hauling him up to sit in the dirt. To his surprise, Rick lets him pull him up by the shoulders. His face is blank, vacant. He doesn’t fight when Negan draws him into his arms, scooping him up like a stray cat. “Not gonna let you freeze your ass off out here, alright? Andrea wouldn’t have fucking wanted you doing that shit, would she?”

They’re halfway back to Rick’s house when Rick, face buried in Negan’s shirt, finally answers. “No, she wouldn’t.” His voice is tight and drawn and just broken enough to make Negan feel like something’s pulling at his rib cage, wanting to get out.

Rick stops him when he tries to carry him upstairs to his bedroom.

“No,” he whispers harshly, “I can’t…can’t sleep in there.”

Right. Of course not.

Instead, Negan sits Rick down on the living room couch, leaves him there a little warily to go seek out a blanket. He finds an unused one in a closet, thankful he didn’t have to raid Rick’s bedroom.

When he wraps Rick in it, he can’t help but think that he looks cute, bundled up warmly and clutching the blanket tightly around him like it comforts him, like he’s safe there.

Negan wants him to feel safe here, with him.

“Wish I could offer you some therapy-quality advice,” Negan says, tucking the blanket more snugly around Rick’s shoulders, “but I’m guessing I’m not really the golden fucking standard of recovered widowers, huh?” He muses. “Probably shouldn’t listen to single thing I say. You could end up like me, rubbing your dick against a baseball bat and crying. I mean, I didn’t fuck the barbed part or anything,” he says quickly, “I’m not _that_ fucking crazy. Just the handle. And I didn’t cry every time. Not that I did it a _lot_ , I’m just fucking saying-”

Rick speaks suddenly, hoarse. “I’ve heard too much about things your dick has touched today, Negan.”

Yeah, that’s probably fair.

“And I know how to deal with grief.” He adds softly.

Negan thinks it’s a jab at him at first- him bringing up Glenn- but then Rick tacks on, “Been a widower before,” And Negan feels even worse.

He wants to promise Rick that he’ll stick around, that he’s not about to fucking die on him, that he’ll be here to annoy the shit out of him for a long goddamn time, if Rick will have him. But it’s too much, even for him, and he knows it, so he just says, “Fuck, Rick. You’ve got some shitty-ass luck.”

Rick doesn’t talk any more, just clutches at the blanket with his hand and falls asleep slumped over on the couch. Negan briefly weighs the pros and cons of hunkering down here for the night. The pros? A warm fucking house to sleep in, and a section of the couch. The privilege of sleeping a few feet away from Rick Grimes. The cons? Rick may wake up in the morning and start screaming at him to get the hell out. Or Carl could come down and spot him and he could wake up to the sound of a gun being cocked in his face.

In the end, he decides that the potential cons are worth a night of comfortable rest. If he wakes up to Carl coming at him with a knife, at least he died well-rested, right?

* * *

He wakes up to Carl giving him a one-eyed scowl from the kitchen. Negan can't help but notice that he's not wearing his usual coverup glasses to hide the gaping socket where his eye once was. He and his girlfriend are making eggs and toast for breakfast, and Negan’s mouth waters at the smell. Rick is huddled on the end of the couch- awake, but not all there.

Nobody’s pointing a gun at him. Nobody’s asking him why the fuck he’s in their house or telling him to get out. Nobody’s threatening to lock him back up in the cell. Overall, a good start to his morning.

“Hey, kid. Been a fucking while since you’ve come around to visit. Good to see that you’re letting your freak flag fly with that badass not-eye of yours. You fucking own that shit. I told you the ladies fucking love scars, am I right? You been alright?” He’s not surprised when Carl doesn’t answer his question.

“I can’t get dad to come to the table to eat,” he says, looking like a man divided. Grief and worry split his face. He looks too old for how young he is.

“Let him fucking eat here, kid. Or is he the type to have rules against shit like that?  Fuck, I bet he is. Rick, you a fucking neat freak? No eating on the couch and all that shit?”

Carl makes an impatient noise. “I tried to get him to eat there, too. He won’t.”

Negan frowns. “Give me a plate, kid,” he says, reaching out a hand.

Carl gives him a plate of eggs and a fork with an unnecessary amount of reluctance. “You can eat when he eats.” He says.

Negan spends the next three hours cajoling Rick to take a bit of egg. Begging and pleading and trying not to raise his voice too much because Rick’s not being difficult on purpose. He just doesn’t want to eat. Not hungry, he says, when he says anything at all.

After an hour, Carl and his girl- Lydia- leave. Negan could eat the now-cold eggs himself. Lie and tell Carl that Rick did it.

He doesn’t. He sits beside Rick, fork in hand, pressing egg to Rick’s sealed lips. There’s little bits in his beard that Negan has to keep brushing away.

When he finally eats, Negan nearly cries.

\--

Negan’s pretty sure the only reason that Carl lets him keep staying in the house is because Negan’s willing to spend hours getting Rick to do basic tasks. He’ll take it- personal aide to Rick Grimes is a huge step up from being his prisoner. Carl has too much to do- helping rebuild Alexandria and the Hilltop, leading people. And here Negan is, willing to work for a two-by-two spot on Rick’s couch and Rick’s leftovers.

\--

Rick’s depressed, and Negan’s not sure how to snap him out of it. Not sure if there’s a snap-out-of-it feature. His face is so blank all the time, just lifeless. He’ll smile at Carl occasionally, vaguely, the expression never meeting his eyes. He talks, walks around just fine. With some convincing, he’ll leave the house, tend to the gardens. Once, Negan thinks he caught Rick almost laughing at some dumb shit that he said. _Almost_.

He just seems so _hopeless_.

* * *

“You fucking stink,” Negan states bluntly. “You smell like you’ve spent the last week zipped up in one of those fucking deadie skinsuits. Get your ass in the shower.”

Rick doesn’t meet his eyes, continuing to stare blankly at the wall in front of him. Negan makes an exasperated sound and grabs Rick by the jaw. The gesture feels familiar and he sees how Rick’s eyes go wide. He relaxes his grip. That’s not who he is anymore, not who he wants to be.

“Don’t make me throw your ass over my shoulder,” he says.

That, shockingly, gets a rise out of Rick. “You’ve threatened to do that before.” The way he says it is almost a challenge, so he _really_ shouldn’t be surprised when Negan follows through, hauling Rick right into his arms and over his shoulder. He considers giving the aforementioned ass a playful swat, except that it wouldn’t be entirely playful coming from him. And he’s not about to cross any lines. Not ones like that, anyway.

He does, however, have no problem dumping a fully clothed Rick into the bathtub and turning the water on him. Rick hisses at the cold, drawing into himself, and Negan swears, fiddling with the spigots. “Fuck, shit, sorry, Rick. That better?” He asks when he gets it to what feels like a normal temperature, and Rick nods, that same blank look working its way back into his face.

“Yeah, this is fine. Wish you’d have let me take my clothes off first, though.”

“They need to be washed, too,” Negan says. “Feel free to take ‘em the fuck off now.”

Negan doesn’t expel the Rick to comply, but a few seconds later he’s being slapped full in the face by a soaked, discarded button-up. Rick keeps stripping and throwing his clothes at Negan like they’ve offended him in some great way.

Rick is naked in the tub, shoving himself one-handedly to his feet to stand beneath the spray of the shower. Negan’s not looking, he’s not, he’s not.

He glances, and Rick catches him. Like he was expecting it. Negan isn’t sure how he feels about that. “You gonna give me some privacy?”

Negan leaves, taking Rick’s wet clothes with him to be washed. When he walks back upstairs after dumping them with the rest of the laundry, Rick is toweling off in the bedroom, bare-assed and carefree. Negan’s about to turn on his heel and leave when Rick calls him out.

“You know I don’t care, right?”

Negan snorts, turning. “You don’t care if I’m standing here while you’re letting little Ricky hang free and easy?” Now that he has kind-of permission, he allows his eyes to wander more freely, just for a moment. He’s only a fucking person, after all. And how many times has he pictured Rick like this, how many nights in that cell did he entertain himself the only way he had left to this exact image?

He’s not thinking about what Rick looks like when he’s hard. He’s not thinking about him on his back, flushed and fucked-out and coated in spunk. He’s not watching Rick bend over to pull on his faded blue boxers and picturing him bent over the side of the bed.

“I don’t.” Rick confirms. “Don’t really know why you’d want to, though.”

Negan feels almost manic laughter bubble up in his chest, and he surprises himself by not letting it out.

Rick Grimes, for all his strengths, can be a real fucking dumbass sometimes.

* * *

Maggie isn’t happy about Negan freely roaming Alexandria. In his defense, though, he’s not exactly out sightseeing. Where Rick goes, he follows, unless Rick seems like he’s itching for some time to himself. If Rick’s having a good day, they’re usually out in the gardens, tending to the crops. And if Rick’s having a bad day? Then nobody’s seeing them at all.

When Maggie confronts Rick, she does it with care- handling him with kid gloves and trying not to be accusatory. He wonders if this is a replay of how Rick dealt with her all those years ago, when Negan cracked her husband’s skull like a raw egg-

No. No, he can’t think about that now. He spent a long time dwelling on it, in that damned cell. Spent a lot of fucking time hearing about it from Rick. The aftermath, what it did to Maggie, what it did to him. How Glenn and Maggie’s son would grow up without knowing his father.

Negan listens in from the next room over, feeling like a child eavesdropping on arguing parents. He hears her- she wants him gone. He can’t blame her, but also…he doesn’t want to fucking go.

To his immense surprise, Rick doesn’t fucking make him.

Maggie doesn’t look at him on her way out, and Negan can’t help but ask, heart in his throat. “Why?”

“She’s leaving soon,” Rick says simply, like somehow that’s enough to explain why he’s letting Negan live in his house, in his precious little town. None of it makes a damn lick of sense, Negan thinks, but he doesn’t dare question it further. This is what he wanted, right?

He gets the real answer as to why Rick didn’t shove him off into an outpost the next day, when he wakes up to see Rick sitting alone at his kitchen table, looking blankly down at the woodgrain like it holds the answers to all of life's most pressing questions. Negan sniffs, checks the sink- no signs that Carl’s made breakfast yet.

“Kid not up yet?” Negan asks nonchalantly, fishing through the cabinets above the counter for one of the boxes of mostly-stale cereal stashed there. “Damn teenagers, right? Sleepin’ in half the fucking day-”

“Carl left,” Rick says quietly into the table. His voice is so cracked, so fragile that it makes Negan nearly stumble. He looks at Rick again- shoulders hunched and tight, so tense and withdrawn that it seems like he’s trying to use willpower to keep himself from shattering altogether. When Negan sits down beside him, tries to catch his eye, he sees the watery red of unshed tears glistening there. “I told him to go. The Hilltop- they need him there. To rebuild. It’s his _home_.” Rick’s voice breaks pitifully on the last word, and then the table is wet and Rick’s tense shoulders are heaving like a dam has burst inside him, floodgates wide open and stormy waters churning up every little repressed emotion that Rick has been trying to keep locked behind steel doors for the past couple weeks.

Negan’s about ninety percent sure that he’s going to get his eye clawed out, but he moves anyway, pulling the sobbing man into his arms and against his chest, wanting to soothe him but not knowing the faintest fucking way how.

It’s a testament to how wrecked Rick is, Negan thinks ruefully, that he’s letting this happen. Pressing into the contact, burying his wooly face into Negan’s broad chest as they sink to the floor. Negan rocks him, holds him close with one hand on the back of his neck and the other rubbing hopefully soothing circles against his back. Rick doesn’t just give him a few morose sniffles- he sobs, big, ugly, heaving things. He shudders in Negan’s arms, against his chest, and there are messy wet stains forming on the front of Negan’s clean white shirt from tears and snot.

“I miss her,” Rick says after a long time. This is the first time Negan has seen him cry over her. He knows, of course, that it's probably not the first, that he probably cried the day she died, when he'd spent all those hours by her bedside. He sounds different after he cries, his throat swollen and nose dripping. He sounds worn, like all of those pieces he’d been holding on to had been jostled and sent smashing onto the floor like blown glass. He’s bruised, battered, a minefield of jagged shards on the floor, and Negan thinks, _I wouldn’t mind getting my hands cut up if it meant putting him back together._


End file.
